


Teen Wolf Bingo

by Levis_turtles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompts, honey pot, teen wolf bingo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 03:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13205289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Levis_turtles/pseuds/Levis_turtles
Summary: A series of Peter/Stiles ficlets based on a list of prompts I found on the internet





	1. Honey Pot of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Prompt: Stiles/Deucalion

Peter was about as happy with this plan as he was with the prospect of having his tongue removed with a pliers. He was sat in the loft with a scowl on his face, arms crossed angrily over his chest while the girls all fussed around Stiles’ hair.

 

“Is this really necessary?” Stiles asked, referring to their petting rather than the primary objective of their scheme. Peter knew that Stiles wouldn’t complain about the plan, not now – the boy was too certain that it would work to abandon it _now_.

 

“We’re just trying to make you look pretty,” Lydia answered, tucking a small spike to the left and then, deciding that that wasn’t quite right, back to the right.

 

“But I’m always pretty,” Stiles replied, after a beat. “Aren’t I?”

 

“Of course you are, sweetie,” Allison interjected, squeezing Stiles’ cheeks between her hands. “But we’re going to make you even prettier, okay?”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes, clearly enjoying the attention, albeit secretly, and Peter had to excuse himself before he saw any more. He wasn’t interested in watching Stiles get ready, he wasn’t remotely in agreement with the plan, and he didn’t want to sit around and watch while Stiles got himself mauled by some other wolf.

 

The beast in Peter couldn’t allow it.

 

.

 

Three hours later and the plan had gone off without a hitch. Deucalion was dead, as were what remained of his pack of Alphas, and the team was positively _glowing_. Even Derek – moody, guilty, perpetually-frowning Derek – was almost looking pleased with the outcome.

 

And it was all because of Stiles.

 

Stiles, who with his pretty face and slender frame was exactly the right bait for the Alpha. Stiles, who with an innocent scent and a curious smile was the first person Deucalion picked out of the crowd.

 

Stiles smells like him, Peter thought. It was driving the wolf in him insane. Stiles smelled like Deucalion smelled, like Deucalion’s interest, like Deucalion’s _arousal_. Peter had noticed it as soon as Scott’s strange little pack had returned, and he couldn’t understand how it wasn’t driving all of them crazy as well.

 

Peter wished that Stiles would have a shower. He wished that he could grab Stiles by the arm and throw him under the water himself. He wanted to scrub every trace of Deucalion away from Stiles’ skin, and replace the Alpha’s scent with his own.

 

Peter clenched his fists where he sat on the staircase. I can’t do that, he thought, as his wolf howled in protest. His instincts were there, begging him to claim what was his, but the man in him had to resist. There was no way to claim Stiles, just as there was no way to claim anyone else without their permission.

 

Once, Peter may have ignored the man. Once, he may have marched up to Stiles right then and there, in front of everyone, and bitten his wrist. Once, he might have claimed Stiles as his own in front of an audience, for Stiles’ embarrassment as well as for everyone else’s understanding.

 

But now? Now, looking at Stiles, Peter couldn’t ignore the man. He couldn't ruin his chances, not before they were even truly there, and so, for the second time that night, Peter removed himself from the room before he could do something he would regret.

 

.

 

No one else noticed when Peter walked away. Stiles couldn’t blame them. Even without a werewolf’s senses, he could smell their victory, and he knew like he knew his own name that there would be no distracting them tonight.

 

Setting down his drink, Stiles stood, not needing to excuse himself as he headed for the stairs. He didn’t know why Peter had left – why he wasn’t as pleased as the rest of them – and it was something that his curious nature was not ready to leave a lonely mystery.

 

Stiles didn’t have to guess where Peter would be. There was a room in Derek’s loft that was, in Stiles’ mind at least, entirely theirs. It was the library, stacked to burst with books that both Peter and Stiles had collected over the years. Every time they found something of interested, be it supernatural or otherwise, they brought it here and studied it together. It was one of Stiles’ favourite thing to do – talking about the supernatural in such an intellectual sense was something that Stiles could only ever do with Peter – and as such, this room was one of Stiles’ favourites in the whole house.

 

Tapping his knuckles gently at the door, Stiles wandered in. Peter’s spine straightened immediately, his shoulders stiffening, and Stiles wondered what was wrong.

 

He said, “I didn’t peg you as the kind to avoid a celebration.”

 

“Alas,” Peter replied, “there must be more of my nephew in me than I had hoped.”

 

“No,” Stiles said, “you’re not the type to punish yourself. I would have expected you to _live_ on the intoxicated states of your acquaintances. People are always so willing to tell you their weaknesses when their blood alcohol percentage is climbing.”

 

“So you’re assuming that my heart has grown too soft for such manipulations in my old age?”

 

“Old age?” Stiles asked. “What are you, thirty four? People older than that have played high-schoolers, dude.” He paused, then, remembering all of the times that he’d had to tell his father the same thing, and said, “It’s not your birthday, is it?”

 

Peter snorted, flicking his book shut, and turned. “No, Stiles,” he said. “It’s not my birthday. But thank you for panicking at the notion of forgetting it.”

 

“You’re very welcome,” Stiles replied. Moving further into the room, his fingers gliding over the finger-worn spines of the books, he took a seat in the armchair opposite Peter’s. “So,” he said, “if it’s not your tender heart or your imputed sin, then what is it? Why are you up here all by yourself?”

 

“Why are you?”

 

“I followed you, man,” Stiles said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not the one being questioned here.”

 

“So why am I?” Peter asked. He looked like he was dodging the question, and only appeared more at fault from the fact that he couldn’t meet Stiles’ eyes. “Perhaps I simply wanted some quiet.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles said. And suddenly, he felt too warm. He was always shoving his nose in, asking questions where they weren’t wanted or warranted. He suddenly remembered that Peter and Deucalion had been friends, once, and that today, Peter had had to watch him die.

 

Standing, Stiles said. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone, then.” He didn’t look at Peter as he made to leave the room, and had taken only one step past the werewolf’s chair before a hand was clamping around his wrist.

 

Stiles spun, instantly on edge, and gasped when all he saw in front of him were Peter’s glowing eyes. His fingers were on Stiles’ wrist, his claws digging in, and Stiles clenched his fist but couldn’t bring himself to look away from Peter’s face.

 

“I couldn’t stay downstairs,” Peter said, “because you _smell_ _like_ _him_.”

 

Stiles’ throat bobbed. He glanced down, at where his skin was dimpling beneath Peter’s claws, and back up, at where Peter’s eyes were focused on his neck.

 

Forcing himself to breathe steadily, Stiles paused, and considered his options. He knew enough about werewolves to know what Peter was thinking, what he was feeling, but it was up to Stiles to reciprocate the thought. He could either turn away from Peter, renouncing his claim on him for good, or he could turn his throat to the sky, and accept Peter’s claim as the truth.

 

Meeting Peter’s glowing eyes head-on, Stiles slowly turned, and offered his throat to the wolf.

 

Peter’s reaction was instantaneous. He leaned forwards, the hand that wasn’t gripping Stiles’ wrist rising to the back of his neck, and buried his nose in Stiles’ throat. He breathed deeply, his eyes fluttering closed against Stiles’ skin, and Stiles stood stock-still as the wolf in Peter did its thing.

 

Minutes past, and Stiles endured them all. He didn’t get anything from the scenting, not in any real way, but it was enough to know that Peter did, and that the wolf did too. Stiles didn’t flinch when Peter’s head turned, when his teeth grazed Stiles’ skin, and he didn’t pull away when Peter drew him even closer and dropped his hand to Stiles’ waist.

 

After another minute, Peter sighed, and when he pulled away, his eyes were their usual, non-glowing shade of blue. He searched Stiles’ expression for a moment, looking for something that Stiles apparently didn’t have, because a second later, Peter let go of Stiles’ wrist and took a few steps back.

 

“You should shower when you get home,” Peter told him, his voice stiff and matter-of-fact. “Unless you want to smell like me and Duke for a week.” He turned away from Stiles then, picking up his book and flicking back to his page. Stiles understood his dismissal and left the room, though not before glancing back at Peter to check that he was okay.

 

Stiles left the party shortly after that, but not before interrogating Derek on how to remove one werewolf’s scent without disrupting another’s.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Prompt: Hunter AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW Warning for the last two segments - once contains heinous violence and the other contains the sexy times

The first time Peter met Stiles, he was just a boy. Thirteen years old, he was finally deemed old enough to attend the bi-monthly meetings with the werewolves, and Stiles Stilinski was the first wolf to wander into the room.

 

Peter knew that he was a wolf immediately. The way Stiles moved, the way he looked across at Peter with lidded eyes and a curious smirk. There was something predatory about him, something that made a shiver crawl up and down Peter’s spine.

 

At the end of the meeting, Stiles was the first to stand, and when the Hales all stood with him, his eyes flashed alpha-red. He was the youngest Alpha that the family had ever seen, Peter later learned, when his mother had explained that the boy was barely fifteen years old.

 

Peter also learned that, if the cautionary hand on the back of his neck when Stiles walked past was anything to go by, he was also the most dangerous.

 

.

 

A year later, they met for the first time outside of a chaperoned meeting. It was Peter’s first day of High School, and of course, Stiles was there as well. Peter hadn’t realised, at first, why his parents had insisted that he wear a silver band around his wrist and carry wolfsbane in his bag.

 

He understood now.

 

Stiles came towards him as soon as he saw him, his expression amused. The two people that Stiles had been stood with were both human, and they made no attempt to follow Stiles down the hall.

 

Pressing himself to the wall, Peter met Stiles’ eyes just in time to see them flash Alpha red.

 

“Do you have precautions in that bag?” Stiles asked, stopping a foot away from Peter with his hip cocked against a locker. He was taller than Peter – much taller – but not by such a distance that Peter felt intimidated by him in the least.

 

Tightening his grip on his back, Peter said, “Yes.”

 

“Good,” Stiles responded, immediately. “There are a lot of dangerous beasties in this school, little hunter. Try not to get yourself caught.”

 

He exuded danger, sharp confidence, overwhelming power. Peter could barely think over his screaming instincts, the perfectly rational desire to run and run and never look back. Peter couldn’t say a thing, but he hard a laugh, and felt a hand messing with his hair.

 

.

 

A year after that, Peter saw him at the pool. It was summer, everyone was there, but Peter homed in on him immediately. Stiles was seventeen, sat with his friends in nothing but his shorts, and when he caught Peter’s eye, he grinned and flashed him a wink.

 

Peter felt his mouth go dry.

 

In the years that Peter had spent in Stiles’ presence, he had learned that the boy he spent all of his time with was called Scott, and that Scott’s girlfriend was called Allison. The other people that Stiles spent time with were called Danny, Jackson, and Lydia.

 

Jackson was well-known in school for being one of the best lacrosse players in Beacon Hills history. Peter knew him well, mostly because his little brother, Michael, was a complete and utter jerk. Peter had scrapped with him in the schoolyard more times than he could count, and it was only his mother’s harsh expressions that kept him from showing the boy _exactly_ what a hunter could do.

 

The girl, Lydia, was less well-known to Peter. As far as he could tell, she was just another pretty face with more money than sense to spend on pretty clothes and cool parties. Peter wasn’t certain that that approximation was quite right, however, because of the way that Stiles sometimes looked at her. Peter had never known Stiles to pay any attention to people who were not worth his time, and it was because of that that Peter knew that there was more to Lydia than what met the eye. Because Stiles looked at her like she could run the world, like the sun rose and fell over the curves of her shoulders.

 

And finally, the other boy, was Danny. He was on the lacrosse team as well, and one of the only players that could give Jackson a run for his money. He was smart, sweet, handsome, and kind – and Peter hated him.

 

Peter hated him because as soon as Stiles looked away from him, he looked to Danny, and then they were kissing, and Peter felt like he was going to be sick.

 

That was the day that Peter realised that maybe, just _maybe_ , he had a crush on Beacon Hills’ Alpha werewolf.

.

 

The next year, Stiles went off to college, and Peter’s heart broke.

 

Stiles came back monthly, Peter’s mother told him, to take care of his bonds with his pack and sort out any matters with the hunters. Peter always knew it when Stiles was back – he could feel him, sometimes – but he never once saw him.

 

.

 

Three years later, when Peter was seventeen, Stiles came back for good.

 

Peter didn’t see him for the first week he was back – Stiles had some pack business to sort out, and then some family business, and then some financial business – but eventually, the time came for Stiles to reacquaint himself with the hunters, and Peter could finally, _finally_ , see him again.

 

He was almost ashamed to say that he wore his best outfit. Peter had grown up quite nicely in the three years that Stiles had been gone, and he made sure that as soon as Stiles saw him at the gathering, he would think so to.

 

Stiles wasn’t even three years older than Peter – almost, but not quite. When he’d been a child, that age difference had seemed like a lot, but now that Peter was older? Three years was nothing. There were five years separating his parents, Two years separating Laura and her fiancé.

 

Three years was nothing, and if Stiles thought so, then Peter was just going to have to wait until he didn’t. Because Peter had wanted Stiles for four years now, and he could wait four more. He would wait ten years, twenty years, if that was what it took for Stiles to look at him the way that he knew he looked at Stiles.

 

.

 

Two months after that, they saw each other again. They were out of the formal setting, standing on more neutral ground, in the dairy aisle of the local supermarket. Stiles had seen Peter first, and when Peter looked up and caught his eye, Stiles was watching him with a grin at his lips.

 

Trusting Peter to hear him from hallway down the aisle, Stiles said, “Peter.” And Peter liked that, because he really hadn’t thought that Stiles would be the kind of person to say ‘hi,’ and it was nice to know that he was right about some things.

 

If anything, Stiles had become more of an enigma since he’d returned home from Stanford.

 

“Stiles,” Peter returned, lifting his chin because he knew that it made his neck look nice. And then, because he was trying his best to be a cheeky little shit, he turned his attention back to the shelf and continued with his shopping.

 

“Where are your parents?” Stiles asked, moving across the aisle to look at the same section of the shelves as Peter. If he could smell how much effort Peter was putting in to looking interesting right now, he didn’t say anything. “I didn’t think they’d let you out of their sights, considering what’s been running around this town in the last couple months.”

 

“I’m not helpless,” Peter said, glancing at Stiles and daring him to challenge his assertion. But Stiles only glanced back at Peter with cool understanding, with no trace of mocking disbelief in his eyes.

 

“No,” Stiles said, eyes roaming over Peter curiously. Peter couldn’t tell if Stiles was assessing his enemy or checking him out, and he didn’t really care. He was one of the best hunters in the clan, by now, and easily the most educated. He was also the one with the biggest ego, but he didn’t see the point in deflating that unnecessarily. “How old are you now, Peter?”

 

“Seventeen,” Peter told him. He tried not to flinch when he said it. He knew that he was still a year away from being an adult, from being eligible for Stiles’ affections.

 

Narrowing his eyes slightly, as though he could smell Peter’s intentions, Stiles nodded. And then, because he was as unpredictable a man as Peter had ever met, he patted Peter on the shoulder and returned to his cart.

 

“Say hi to your mother for me,” he said, winking as he left, and Peter couldn’t help but think that _no_ , he wouldn’t be telling his mother about this at all.

 

.

 

When Peter fell asleep on his eighteenth birthday, he was not alone. There was a girl in his bed, her long hair falling over Peter’s clean satin pillowcases, her shapely legs wrapped around Peter’s waist. She was a girl that Peter had met at school, a girl that had looked at Peter with enough curiosity and interest to tempt Peter to bite.

 

She was a girl dotted with moles, a girl with honey-yellow eyes.

 

Peter buried his face in her throat and breathed her in. She smelled of sweat, of perfume, and Peter couldn’t help but think that it was all so wrong. If he had had a werewolf’s senses, he would have been able to smell her for real. He could have scented her, marked her as is own.

 

If he even _wanted_ her as his own, he thought.

 

He fell asleep with a girl in his arms and a boy on his brain, and spent the whole night dreaming of pretty little moles and Alpha red eyes.

 

When he woke up the next morning, something was different. Peter sat up, ignoring the sleeping woman trying to pull him back to bed. The window was open – wide open, letting all the fresh scents of the forest filter in – and sat as the end of Peter’s bed was a neatly wrapped little box.

 

Rolling out of bed, Peter first assessed the window. It had been opened from the outside, expertly done, and the person who had opened it had climbed there from the ground.

 

There were no footprints on Peter’s floor.

 

Closing the window, Peter turned his attention to the box. It was a gift, he was certain of that, if only because his birthday had been less than twenty-four hours ago. Cautiously, Peter took it in his hands, removed the wrapping, and laughed.

 

 _If I wasn’t in love with him already,_ he thought, _I_ _would_ _be_ _now_ , as he looked down at the book in his right hand and the weapon in his left.

 

.

 

A year later, Peter was in college. He enjoyed the studious atmosphere, the feeling of victory after his hours of work on a paper _finally_ payed off. He liked his roommate, who was just as content to sit in silence and not get to know each other as Peter was, and he loved his dorm, where no one else knew just how dangerous he was.

 

It had been almost two months since the last time he had seen Stiles, and the college atmosphere was distracting enough that Peter wasn’t caught thinking of him every hour of the day.

 

He wondered if he was getting over Stiles, and what would happen if he actually did.

.

 

A few weeks later, Peter heard a sound in the middle of the night. He rolled out of bed immediately, casting a glance at his sleeping roommate to make sure that it wasn’t just him sneaking around in the dark.

 

The rustling downstairs continued, and Peter frowned. There were only four people living in his house – himself and his roommate in one room, and two other boys in the other. A glance at the empty drive proved that the two boys from the other room still weren’t back from whatever party they had run off to, meaning that there really shouldn’t have been anyone else in the house.

 

Sighing quietly, knowing that it had only been a matter of time before some supernatural beast discovered him, Peter grabbed the knife that he kept under his pillow and headed towards the stairs.

 

Gripping the knife even tighter, Peter slipped into the kitchen, sighed, and dropped his knife-wielding hand to his side.

 

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

 

“I needed a place to stay,” Stiles replied. He was sitting on the kitchen table, a can of coke in one hand and a packet of twizzlers in the other. He said, “It’s too late to get on the bus and I’m not sleeping on the street if I can help it.”

 

Peter didn’t miss the implication that Stiles would sleep on the street if he had to. He was resilient, resourceful – Peter liked that.

 

Setting the knife on the table – where Stiles was sure to see it – Peter leaned back against the fridge. “So you just wandered into the first house you came across?” Peter asked. “Which just so happened to be mine?”

 

“Of course not,” Stiles said. “Even I’m not _that_ lucky. I knew that you lived in the area so I sniffed you out.”

 

Peter’s mind drew a blank. “You _sniffed_ _me_ _out_?”

 

“Werewolf senses,” Stiles said, pointing at his nose and flashing his eyes. “It’s not actually that hard. Hunters always have this particular smell about them, but you-”

 

Peter lifted an eyebrow. “Me?”

 

“You smell different,” Stiles said. He slipped away from the table and crowded into Peter’s space, angling his face in a way that put his nose inches away from Peter’s neck. “No matter how long it’s been,” Stiles said, “I can always sniff you out.”

 

Peter swallowed but didn’t move. He wasn’t afraid of Stiles – he had never been afraid of Stiles – but he was nervous, and he was desperate not to let it show.

 

Stiles smiled, flicked his eyes upwards to look into Peter’s, and leaned another inch forwards. His nose slid across Peter’s throat, along with half of his cheek, and he traced the line upwards to the tip of Peter’s chin.

 

He said, “There’s not a lot of fear there, Peter.” He breathed in again, his hand rising to rest against the nape of Peter’s neck. “There are other things, though. Would you like to know what they are?”

 

Peter already knew what they were. He knew his own body well enough to know what it was feeling, how it was reacting. Stiles would smell lust, thick and heavy, along with a smidge of anxiety and a dab of adrenaline. He wouldn’t smell fear, though, not fresh fear anyway, and he wouldn’t smell embarrassment.

 

Peter was not ashamed of who he was.

 

Sniffing again, Stiles pulled away, turning to the table to grab his snacks before wandering into the living room. He said, “I’m going to crash on your couch, okay? I’ll be gone before your friends wake up.”

 

Peter nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and returned to bed without another word.

 

.

 

Three months later, they meet again. Peter was beginning to wonder if Stiles was following him, when he glanced across the crowded room and saw the werewolf leaning against a wall, staring at him. Peter’s housemates had gotten the idea to throw a party, and Peter had been powerless to stop them. By the looks of the living room, the three boys had invited every person they knew, including one red-eyed Alpha werewolf.

 

Peter lifted his eyebrows when he saw Stiles, and then waved a can of beer in his direction. Stiles smiled back, pushing away from the wall and heading in Peter’s direction. Stiles made it through the crowd as if it were parting for him, as if every human in the place could tell that Stiles was Alpha, that he was in charge.

 

Stiles took the can away from Peter and popped the tab, sucking at the foam that rose up through the hole. He looked at Peter curiously, taking his sip, and said, “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

 

“I’m in college,” Peter said. “There’s no such thing as too young.”

 

Stiles hummed, nodding slightly, and looked Peter up and down. “I don’t think anyone would call you on it, anyway,” he said. “You look older than I do in that shirt.”

 

Peter didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the heat of the moment that made him say it, but there was only one thing on his mind when he said, “I look even older out of it.”

 

Stiles laughed, his eyes still managing to look hungry and dangerous, and he said, “I bet you do.”

 

.

 

Another few months later and it’s Christmas break, and the werewolves have invited the hunters to dinner. Four of them decided to go – some of the family already had plans, some of the family was just too scared – and the door to the pack’s house was opening before the hunters even had the chance to knock.

 

The girl that opened the door was small. She was too young to have attended any of the meetings, and as such, Peter didn’t recognise her. She looked the four hunters up and down in an eerily familiar was before she turned to the side – carefully still keeping her eyes on them – and yelled, “Stiles!”

 

The boy in question came running immediately. His socks slid slightly on the flood, but he used it to his advantage as he came skidding past the stairs. For all that he was a grown man, he still acted like a child, which only seemed _more_ endearing after he had lifted the little girl into his arms and blown a raspberry on to her cheek.

 

“Isabella,” he said, squeezing the girl until she squealed. “What have I told you about opening the door when you don’t know who it is?”

 

“But I did know who it was,” she said. “I heard you telling mommy that the hunters were coming yesterday.”

 

“Oh, did you?” Stiles asked. The face he was putting on was angry, but there was no hiding the fond amusement in his voice. The girl nodded vigorously and Stiles shook his head, lowering her to the ground and aiming her at the living room. “Go and tell your mother that you’re picking up my bad habits,” he said, and she was running for her mother before Stiles had even let her go.

 

“I didn’t know you had children,” Peter’s mother said.

 

“I don’t,” Stiles said, straitening up from his crouch. “Isabella is my niece.”

 

“And you haven’t declared her because-?”

 

“Because she isn’t a werewolf,” Stiles said. “And because I’ve made it clear to you a dozen times before that I don’t want you keeping tabs on my family.”

 

“We just want to know-”

 

“Who’s human and who isn’t,” Stiles said. “In case we go rogue and you have to know who you can kill and who you cannot.”

 

“And-”

 

“And,” Stiles continued, “I have explained to you every time you’ve brought it up that if someone were to get a hold of that list – a group of less amicable hunters, let’s say – me and my whole family would be screwed. So, write the name of my four-year-old niece down on your little list if you have to, but know that if anything ever happens to her, I’ll be coming for your throat specifically. Now,” Stiles took a step back from the door and waved them inside, “please make yourselves at home. Dinner’s in an hour.”

 

The hunters walked past Stiles quietly, suitably chastised, and three of them headed into the living room while Peter hung back at Stiles’ side.

 

“I asked them not to do that,” Peter said, when Stiles glanced at him curiously.

 

“Eh, I don’t mind,” Stiles said. “I know that none of your lot would do anything to hurt mine if we didn’t deserve it. I just like to make your mother squirm.”

 

“She likes that about you,” Peter said, carefully keeping quiet about that fact that he liked that about Stiles, too. “She likes that you look after your own.”

 

“It’s what wolves do,” Stiles said.

 

“No it’s not,” Peter replied. “I’ve seen dozens of packs that, beyond their bonds, couldn’t give a shit about one another. But your pack – it’s more like a family than anything else. It’s not what wolves do,” Peter said. “It’s what you do.”

 

Stiles glanced at Peter curiously, one eyebrow raised. He said, “Your mother told you all that, did she?”

 

Peter felt himself blush and turned his face away. He said, “Thank you for inviting us, Stiles,” and followed his family into the den.

 

.

 

Two hours later, dinner had been eaten, and Stiles’ pack was gathered in the living room with mountains of presents under their tree. Peter’s family hadn’t thought about bringing presents, which was horribly awkward when they were each given one.

 

Peter, on the other hand, had brought a gift for the Alpha of the pack, as well as a few smaller, more edible gifts for the rest of the pack. Handing chocolate and sweets to the smaller werewolves, Peter waited for everyone else to be distracted before he approached Stiles’ side.

 

He handed the box to Stiles quietly, and bit back a grin as the wolf tore back the wrapping. Opening the box, Peter was lucky enough to catch Stiles’ attempt to bite back his laughter, before a grin split his face and he was giggling into the back of his hand.

 

“So, you like it?” Peter asked, and Stiles nodded profusely as he pulled the chew-toy out of the box and gave it an experimental squeak.

 

“Now I feel bad for only getting you books,” he said, stilling smiling as he set the box aside.

 

“I like books,” Peter told him, mildly. “At least I can actually use those.”

 

“Who said I couldn’t find a use for this?” Stiles asked. He held the toy close to his mouth and mimed biting down, and Peter’s mind was suddenly overwhelmed with ideas about what, exactly, Stiles planned to do with it. “Maybe you could even help me play with it, sometime.”

 

Peter’s heart was thundering in his chest, and he was sure that Stiles could hear it. The werewolf didn’t say anything, however, instead turning on his heel and practically skipping out of the room.

 

.

 

When Peter was twenty, he and Stiles met for the first time on the battlefield. They were fighting for the same team, thank the gods, but they were doing worse than expected.

 

Stiles caught Peter by the wrist and dragged him behind him, saying, “Watch my back and I’ll watch yours.”

 

Peter did as he was told, flipping his back against Stiles’ and turning his attention to the trees. There were hunters dotted all around, their pistols aimed on everything that moved – human or otherwise. Peter would be stupid to think that he hadn’t lost some of his family – all he could hope for now was to end this before he lost it all.

 

Suddenly, a voice called out from the woods. “Surrender,” it said, “and we will spare your lives. We don’t want any more bloodshed today.”

 

Peter had personally killed three of the hunters. Stiles had certainly killed more. The voice was more concerned with its own side than with Peter’s, and he would be stupid to surrender now.

 

Which was why he was surprised when Stiles said, “Alright. We surrender.”

 

“What are you doing?” Peter hissed. “You’re going to get us killed.”

 

“No I’m not,” Stiles shot back. “Now shut up and get on your knees.”

 

Peter had dreamed about Stiles saying that to him, but not like this. He wasn’t one to disobey, however, and so with instincts screaming to revolt, Peter dropped to his knees and drove his gun into the dirt.

 

Stiles did the same, but there was something odd about the way he sat.

 

His toes were shoved deep into the ground, upright against the dirt as though Stiles were poised to push himself up. His hands, similarly, were flat against the ground, ready for the pounce. Suddenly, it all made sense to Peter. Stiles was going to fight. He was going to wait for the hunters to get close enough to grab and Stiles was going to kill them all.

 

The men crossed the clearing with ease. They looked smug, looked as though they could almost pity the poor little wolf. Peter didn’t think that they knew that Stiles was Alpha – Peter didn’t think they knew that Stiles would put up a fight.

 

When three hunters were in range, Stiles sprung to his feet. He caught to of the men by the throats, tearing into the skin as he surged forwards to sink his teeth into the other hunter’s neck. Peter was on his feet a second later, firing bullets at the two hunters that made to grab at Stiles.

 

The last four hunters were left to the rest of Stiles’ pack. Two of the younger wolves jumped on the one that trued to run, while a wolf that was older than Stiles took care of the other. Stiles reached for the last two hunters at once, dodging the bullets that they threw at him and grabbing them by the arms. He flipped one over his knee and made him land with a crack, his neck breaking instantly on impact. The other Stiles punched in the gut, tearing his spine out through the hole in his chest.

 

Peter later learned that that hunter had been the one to shoot Isabella.

 

When all of the hunters were dead, Stiles was still in action. He raced across the clearing, scooping a tiny bundle into his bloody arms. Peter saw the swirl of blonde hair, the swell of blood on the chest.

 

Isabella.

 

Stiles wasted no time in dipping his chin down, giving the girl the bite. At such a young age, it was an enormous risk to take, but Peter supposed that to Stiles, anything was better than a death like this.

 

The werewolves regrouped and so did the hunters. Peter was relieved to see that his mother was still alive, as were both of his sisters, as well as a number of cousins and uncles and aunties that Peter barely even knew. His family grabbed him and pulled him around, checking that he was okay, but Peter could only keep his eyes on Stiles.

 

The wolf pack had suffered enormously. Over twenty of them had walked in, and only eight of them remained. Isabella’s mother, one of Stiles’ sisters, and three of the children were missing, as well as so many more that Peter couldn’t name. He could practically feel the sorrow rolling off the pack, feel the heat of so many broken bonds festering in their hearts.

 

Looking away from their grief, Peter decided that this was a moment for Stiles to be alone, and he grabbed his sister’s hand and led her away from the mess.

 

.

 

Six weeks later and Peter was jerked awake by a knock on his bedroom window. He rolled out of bed, ignoring the fact that he was barely dressed, and opened the window for Stiles.

 

The werewolf slipped in silently and closed the window behind him. “Isabella’s fine,” he said.

 

“I’m glad.”

 

“She’s too young to be a wolf, I know.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have been so quick to-”

 

“She was also too young to die,” Peter cut him off. “You did what you had to do to save her life. No one in this family is going to criticise you for that.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Good.” He glanced down at the ground, at the muddy toes of his shoes. “I don’t know why I came to you. You’re not the Patriarch of the family so I-”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter said. “You can come to me for anything.”

 

Stiles looked up then, and they met each other’s eyes across the room and Peter felt something almost tangible between them. Stepping forwards, away from the window, Stiles said, “Anything?”

 

There were implications there that Peter wanted _everything_ to do with. “Anything,” he said.

 

“Then,” Stiles paused, unsure for the first time since Peter had met him, “would I be able to stay here tonight?”

 

“Here,” Peter said, “as in, in my house?”

 

“Here,” Stiles responded, “as in, in your bed.”

 

“Oh.” Peter’s heart was racing. He was panicked and excited and he wanted nothing more than to tackle Stiles into bed and never let him leave. But he couldn’t do that. Stiles was grieving, he wasn’t in his right mind. If Peter did anything now, both of them would regret it, and that was far from what Peter wanted for them.

 

Without waiting for Peter’s reply, Stiles kicked off his shoes. He took of his shirt and unbuckled his jeans and Peter’s mind was swimming as Stiles wriggled into his bed and patted the blankets, inviting him in.

 

Peter crawled into bed next to Stiles carefully, cautiously, and wrapped his arms around him. He was warm – all of the wolves that Peter had met ran hot – and he was small, and beautiful, and he could break Peter’s neck with a finger. He was the man that Peter had been in love with for years, and now finally, finally, Peter had him in his arms.

 

.

 

Two weeks later, Stiles was back in Peter’s bed. Peter’s was the only house where no one could hear their screams, and as such, it had become their regular meeting place for loud, violent sex.

 

“Hold this,” Stiles said, and shoved the squeaky-toy that Peter had bought him into Peter’s mouth. The hunter feigned outrage, feigned surprise, and was secretly disgustingly turned on by it all. He sunk his teeth into the plastic as Stiles sunk his teeth into _him_ , and quietly decided that that was the best present that he had ever bought.


End file.
